You never imagined betrayal would smell like wet vinyl, cheap air freshener, and rain.
That is the first thing you notice as you sit behind the wheel of Fernando’s old yellow taxi, parked half a block from the upscale shopping center where your wife likes to spend slow afternoons pretending the city belongs to her. Rain rattles against the windshield in restless bursts, turning the glass into a trembling gray veil. Your hands, more accustomed to signing hotel acquisitions and expansion contracts than gripping a cracked steering wheel, feel strangely unsteady.
You tell yourself it is the disguise.
The cap.
The dark glasses.
The thrift-store plaid shirt.
The cheap watch on your wrist instead of the one that usually announces your name before you speak.
